


The Monseigneur

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Character Study, Death, Decay, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 07:12:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8788585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: //Sebastian remembers a past contract.//The condottiere had been a Cardinal's son - a duke of great wealth and power - but Sebastian cared not for such frivolities.    It was only towards death that the Monseigneur became interesting. 1496. Italy. (Sebastian-centric)





	

He was the Cardinal’s son. Illegitimate of course (as they all were) but there was such an _intrigue_ about him. Barely two days past his nineteenth year and he had soaked himself in blood; his clothes caked with the decaying organs of his fallen nemesis, his sword rusted with life and death.

The condottiere entered the villa in calm, dignified silence, his hair as golden as his name.

_Apollinaire Alesini._

The Cardinal’s son. 

“Sergio.” His voice was grave—solemn, perhaps, was the better word—but Sergio did like his petty torments. _Grave as the coffin in which he shall soon lay._

“Monseigneur.” A smooth, silken address of Italian deterrence was heard and, not long after, a man of 30 or so materialized from the shadows.

He bowed, one arm extended, the other behind his back, before rising to his full height of some six feet, pale skin pearlescent against the setting sun.

It could not be helped. The fiend was beautiful. Positively angelic.

“Have this cleaned. I will not be seen with anything less than pristine.” His master ordered, voice sharp and low. There was no need to raise his voice; the condottiere exuded power and affluence, and Sergio fed on the glory of it all.

So self assured was he in his own ascension that he was willing to risk eternal damnation for a few precious moments of common adulation. 

Sergio took the blood-caked sword from Apollinaire, duke of Barbati and Carracci, and examined the jeweled hilt with a hint of pleasure.

“My, my.” He chuckled. “You did not hold back, did you Monseigneur?”

Apollinaire paused mid-stride. “Have you had a dull day, _demone_?”

“It has been made all the better with your return. Like a man at sea who hopes to move, you are the zephyr of reason that propels me forward.”

It was sickly sweet praise, nourished by wormwood and spoilt honey. 

Apollinaire turned, countenance blank, and Sergio took the time to admire the Grecian elegance of his master’s features. He was Michelangelo’s finest masterpiece brought to life; fairer than Adonis and vainer than Narcissus, this golden haired _enfant terrible_ was Sergio’s finest treasure. Oh his hatred was _vile_ —so filled with black venom and unspeakable sin that it was laughable to think his father, Cardinal Alesini, spent his days in holy prayer and enlightened contemplation.

For a moment they both stood there, brandished sunlight pouring into the marble vestibulum like wildfire. Sergio, the sable haired night of a thousand sleepless deaths, marveling his master with contemptuous delight and Apollinaire, the inimitable warrior-prince blessed by Ares and exiled by heaven. It was a devastating image of Dante’s inferno, quiet hatred coiling round the two of them in a perfect imitation of Cleopatra’s asp. Poison soaked the air, making the last rays of sunlight brighter, tinting the edges with auburn as they looked at each other for a confirmation of the inevitable.

Sergio’s eyes, colored by the violet comet fall, burned ruby-amethyst as he held onto his master’s sword. Legions of men it had destroyed, blow by blow, limbs severed and bone broken, splinters of white intermingling with the scarlet blood of life. It now stayed in the demon’s hands as the fire rust night continued to scorch them with unyielding depth.

A solider without a sword, now wasn’t _that_ funny?

Apollinaire’s eyes, grey and pale and hard, flickered to the weapon and then to his _sicario,_ whose payment grew by the day.

“You speak without meaning.” He said at long last while the dusk behind him burst into flames, outlining his form in amber and melted gold. “I have no words to say to you.”

“Another commission, perhaps?”

“You have exhausted my work to near completion. There is nothing left for you to take.”

The demon's eyes flickered scarlet. “Have I?” He inquired, daring to take one step forward, the sword dragging behind him. “Is there not anything else, Monseigneur?”

A faint half-smile appeared on the grand duke’s lips. It was derisive and bleak—perhaps a touch regretful. “ _Niente._ _Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta vie era smarrita._ ” Against the backdrop of Hestia’s final prayer, the golden prince fell to confession though there was nothing shameful in his admission.

He had, after all, quoted truth. 

The demon laughed.

“ _È_ _tuo._ " The duke contended."The prize is yours.”

A chill broke through the villa’s airy halls—nature defying nature. It was still a golden August; full red roses continued to bloom and hearths were unneeded; warmth encased Italy like a lover’s embrace but here—here winter’s bite cut through the skin, slashing at the unbloodied flesh. A thousand ice daggers hooking onto open wounds.

From behind the demon darkness billowed, black satin fire and violet dusk; the colors surged forward, devouring the last rays of sunlight as darkness finally eclipsed. Flickers of a demonic essence unknown to man, bishop, or cardinal scratched against the human facade of Sergio’s body. Ripples of something beyond the realm of possibility clawed forth—features blurring with the blackness until a grim fusion of beast and man stood before Apollinaire, mouth twisted in a smile that was all sharp teeth and feral hunger.

“Are...you...sure?” The creature purred, silk giving way to sand. “Have I satisfied all there is to satisfy?” 

“You have done nothing but take your due, time and time again.” The duke approached him, “you are but the poisoned chalice that I must now drink from.”

He held out his hand—lean, elegant fingers and snowdrop skin—for the demon to take.

The creature laughed—a terrifying, inhuman sound of nails against glass and the frantic gasps of a mother’s passing. “Come now, Monseigneur. I have done all you have ever asked. Surely I deserve some acknowledgement?” He was toying with him now (for the demon so loved his games) and these past few years had only perverted his already grotesque taste.

The noblemen of Italy were anything but noble.

“Come Monseigneur— _praise me._ ” The beast whispered, voice cradle soft—as soothing as nursery tea. “Say something divine—praise me here and now.”

Another burst of laughter threatened to come forward.

“Enough.” Apollinaire grasped the demon’s claw, expression not betraying the searing pain he felt as smoke emanated from his skin. Flesh against fiend, burning, burning, burning away. “Take what is yours and be done with it.”

“Shall you not miss me at all, Monseigneur?”

A wan smile—the duke’s final expression—branded itself in the demon’s eye. “I shall only miss the games we’ve played. I shall miss the conquests I have yet to encounter.”

His words were curious but the hunger—the exquisite hunger of the abyss—took over and the beast pounced on his prey, lips curled in a macabre grin that cut through the duke’s armor and fell to his heart. The beating organ continued to pump, blood splaying everywhere, ruining the pristine marble floors of the Monseigneur’s entranceway.

With his prey incapacitated, the demon’s mouth met Apollinaire’s in a kiss that belied no affection.

It was the soul then, the soul that filled him at last.

 

* * *

 

“Sebastian.”

It was a fine spring day; bluebirds chirped outside and wild daffodils bloomed in the Phantomhive gardens, pale yellow against dark green, while a bright May sun warmed the earth.

It took him a moment—but that was hardly discernible.  

“My lord?” The butler answered, voice smooth and reassuring as carmine silk. 

“Prepare the carriage. I have need to visit my Glasgow factories.” Ciel’s one sapphire eye flicked up to meet Sebastian’s gaze though his expression was hardly cordial. 

It amazed him how much contempt his little master could have for him during the day. Truly,  _it was funny._

Perhaps that was why a criminally devious smile appeared on the demon’s mouth. “Certainly.” He bowed lightly, raven black hair falling across his face in a manner Lady Midford would have despised.

“And Sebastian—“

“My lord?”

“Book the tickets to Italy. It must be done. Her majesty requires my presence in Rome.” 

A hint of surprise jolted through Sebastian—surprise, and singular sort of irony. It had been four centuries since he'd stepped foot on the Italian peninsula but—who was he to defy his master's orders?

So the butler bowed in acquiescence, lips twitching in a half-smile as he took in his master, ruby eyes glittering. 

Was that a hint of a blush on his precocious lordling's cheeks? 

Ah well. 

How delightful it would be to visit Italy once again. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Monseigneur: a title of address used to a French speaking prince, cardinal, archbishop, or bishop
> 
> \- Sicario: Italian word for hit man
> 
> \- “Like a man at sea who hopes to move…” comes from Pier Della Vigne’s poem ‘Love in whom I hope and desire’ 
> 
> \- Niente: nothing
> 
> \- “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita…” translates to “When I had journeyed half of our life’s way, I found myself within a shadowed forest, for I had lost the path that does not stray.” — comes from Dante Alighieri’s ‘The Divine Comedy’ Inferno section (1308 - 1321) 
> 
> \- The name Sergio means “one who serves” (I also chose Sergio because of how closely it resembles the word "seraglio", which is basically a Turkish harem XD)
> 
> A/N: I just really wanna know who else Seb’s made contracts with. This one with Apollinaire takes place during Pope Alexander VI’s reign (1492 - 1503). I headcanon that Seb behaves instinctively based on his given surroundings and whatever instructions his current master has for him, so he wasn’t always the refined English gent he makes himself out to be with Ciel. Remember, Ciel had to teach Sebastian how to be the “perfect” butler/caretaker but here, Apollinaire is 19 and a ruthless condottiere (leader of a professional military company) so what he expects from Sebastian/Sergio is vastly different from what Ciel expects. (So I hope this can explain some of the OOC-ness.) 
> 
> This fic was more of an impulse write (XD) so I hope it was at least interesting.


End file.
